Listen to the Band
by Javanyet
Summary: Snapshots from the road as the Monkees tour to promote their new album and upcoming TV season. Chapter 9: The radio interview goes as usual for radio interviews... with two notable exceptions. Chapter 10: Another reason to hate Detroit.
1. Welcome to the Monkee house

The Monkees, plus the roadies and tech crew and electricians and instrument care specialists and everyone else necessary for the tour were assembled in the empty soundstage. Bob had told Bonnie she was in charge of introducing the new tour manager, partly because many of the tour staff had known her first, but mostly because he hated the first "pep rally", as he referred to every initial pre-tour mass meeting. Most people in Bonnie's position might be grumbling because they were not _themselves_ the new tour manager... but Bonnie was almost hysterically grateful.

There had been a brief period a few weeks before when Mike had had his hands full some nights, calming her freaked-out nightmares of having the top job thrust upon her. Being the supreme authority had never been her ambition. Besides, who wanted a target that big painted on your forehead?

* * *

"Okay guys," she called out over those assembled. "This here is Barry Stowell. He is the tour manager and he's the big boss for the whole happening for the next month."

"Month!" wailed Micky. "You said two weeks!" Naturally he had known about the extension for at least a week. But, well, Micky was Micky and there was no shutting him up when he had an audience, even one comprised of comrades-in-tour.

"Sadly, I am not in charge of the whole thing," Bonnie told him (not for the first time). "Some gigs have been extended because of advance ticket sales and some down-time added to avoid nervous breakdowns, mostly mine. Hey, you wanted to get rich and famous, so here it is. Careful what you wish for, and all that jive."

Now the man who had been standing beside Bonnie stepped forward. Tall, semi-dark, and generically good-looking, he presented himself with a decent combination of humility, authority, and good humor.

"Hi. I'm not new to concert tours but we all know I am new to the Monkees." He nodded toward Bonnie. "I'll be leaning on your familiar friend for some guidance. I'll be the front man for the press calls, the venue logistics radio interviews, merchandising, all that stuff. Bonnie will do what she always does, from what Bob tells me. She'll make the day-to-day run like clockwork and crack the whip over the rank and file.

"In other words... same old, same old," Davy cracked.

"Besides... how many _new_ ways are there to haul music from town to town?" Rico, one of the senior security observed, then followed with, "Unless you plan to fly us all first class... _that _we'll like just fine!"

Hoots and applause from those assembled.

"I'll also wrangle the film crew," Barry nodded to indicate the group of about a dozen men and women gathered in the back corner, their equipment stashed elsewhere. "If here's any problems that come up or anything new you need to ask about feel free to grab me if I'm around but pass it to Bonnie if I'm not."

"As always," Bonnie announced, "complaints are submitted in writing... in triplicate. To be filed."

Only one person was foolish enough to ask, "Filed where?" He flinched under the chorus of groans and Mike's lazy drawl, "You must be new in town, kid." In fact Bill was the newest roadie, recently turned twenty-one and beside himself to have his first road job.

"_What?_" he protested as the groans turned to laughter.

"I'm _so_ glad you asked," Bonnie answered with a huge smile as she reached behind her and flourished a rubbish can with a large sign taped to it that read "Complaints."

"Hey... don't feel bad," she told the kid whose name she'd pound into her head, along with everyone else's, in the next few days. "There's always _one_ in the crowd who has to ask. Your initiation is hereby concluded. Anyone gives you a hard time over it, just let me know and I'll straighten 'em out."

"_BOOOOOO!"_ hollered the rest, including Davy, Peter, Micky and even Mike.

"Why does it always feel like the first day of camp when we do this? Okay, Barry, you're head counselor. Let me know if you need me to do anything, you know... " she glared at the motley group in front of her, "_special_."

Micky, still in his Class Clown groove, turned to face everyone with a sly wink.

"You know... _special_. Like sewing name tags in your underwear. But that'll cost ya _extra." _He punctuated with a Groucho leer and mimed cigar waggle, and didn't even see it coming when Bonnie marched up behind him to smack the back of his head.

_"DAMMIT!_" Micky rubbed his head as everyone else cracked up. "_Why_ won't anyone make you _stop that?"_

The roughly sixty roadies, techies, security and costuming staff roared as one as Peter waved his arms, conductor-like.

_"BECAUSE IT'S IN HER CONTRACT!"_

Then Genie stepped up, flanked by her costume crew.

"Oi! Micky, Peter, David, Michael, to the costume shop on the double! Final fittings in five minutes!"

The rest gathered with their respective crew bosses to get oriented as Bonnie shook Barry's hand and told him with a laugh, "Welcome to the Monkee house. It's a great life, if you don't weaken."


	2. Tour minus one night and counting

"Mm-mm..." Bonnie smiled into Mike's kiss as he leaned over her where she'd been snoozing on the music room sofa. "Are we there yet Papa Nez?"

Since learning that "Papa Nez" was _not_ a groupie/fan nickname but born of a childhood ability to organize everything like a diligent parent, Bonnie had begun to use it. Albeit sparingly.

"Very funny." He sat down as she scrooched over to make space. "Everything's packed and waiting by the door to load into the van in the morning. C'mon to bed, we gotta long day tomorrow."

In the everyday business of Monkees, Bonnie was more than in charge of her domain. But pre-tour at home she was more than willing to let Mike take over when it came to getting them ready to roll. He was so _good_ at it, never once had she come up short on the road. Before they'd gotten together she always had forgotten something important and had to scrounge or buy. And her pre-tour jitters... okay, freak-outs... he always was able to pull her down from the ceiling and soothe her with talk that would have sounded impossibly lame or insulting coming from anyone else.

"You're so good, Nes," she purred as he pulled her to her feet. "I think I'll keep you."

Not pausing a step as he hauled her upstairs, Mike shot a jaundiced look over his shoulder.

"You'll keep _me?_ That's a hot one." As she shed her clothes he pulled down the bed and continued, "You are the most kept woman west of Tallahassee. Let me remind you whose name is on the mortgage, and the light bill, and the phone bill, and the titles to all the cars at your disposal. You'll keep _me?_ That'll be the day. " He knew she was too beat to notice the smile he couldn't quite hide.

Now attired in one of his endless collection of Triumph t shirts Bonnie protested, "Hey Diamond Jim, not all the cars... you signed the GTO over to me. You said it 'looked good on me'. Besides, what's the point of shacking up with a rock star if I gotta pay my own way?"

"Well lemme tell you missy," he warned as he steered her into bed, "you'll look just as good in a VW. Now warm up my side, I gotta couple of calls to make."

"What time is it anyway?"

It was only just after ten p.m. and their departure from the studio was scheduled for eleven a.m. tomorrow, with press and the film crew covering it. But Bonnie was half past fried, and Mike knew too well she'd be up all night if left to her own devices.

"Never mind what time... if you don't get some sleep we are all gonna pay for it tomorrow."

"Humph, a person might think you're the boss of me," she grumped, already half asleep.

"Hell no, mama, I know better than that," he muttered to himself, smiling as he kissed her head that was half buried under the covers, then headed to the bedroom door to make his calls in private.

"I heard that," came the muffled reply.

"You didn't hear nothin', now go to sleep."

In the music room and safely out of earshot, he dialed New York.

"Hey Lulu, it's Mike. Merciful heavens, it _is_ after one in New York. Which means you are just gettin' warmed up. No, everything's fine. Morris is asleep, praise the Lord. Yeah you know how she is before a tour, but I'm used to it. Remind her to breathe once in awhile, spike her coffee with whiskey after supper... it's all cool. How's everything in NYC? How's Ari? Great, groovy. Now listen, Lulu, you know when we're playing at the Garden, right? Well the guys and Chip and me got an idea, so listen up."

After saying goodbye to Lulu, Mike called Genie. "Hey Genie, Mike. Oh for christsake, settle down. I can't help it if you keep nun hours. I wanna talk to you about the Chicago gig. You know it's her birthday right? Yeah I know she's still kinda funny about birthdays, but hear me out, okay?"

All business concluded, Mike returned to the bedroom. Bonnie lay sprawled out in the huge bed, deeply asleep after "warming up" Mike's side. He hit the lights and slid in beside her and touched her shoulder with light fingers. With a barely audible "hmm" she rolled into his arms. He was going to miss this, he thought to himself. Yeah they'd have time together on the road, including times like this; they always did. But he'd gotten more selfish than usual about sharing with the world. He and Morris, they'd gotten good at drawing the line most times. But a tour was all about sharing _everything_. "Careful what you wish for, huh baby," he whispered, and hugged her closer before falling asleep, as if he could keep her, and _them,_ all to himself for just a bit longer.


	3. En route

"Bonnie, we're set to go," Barry called out to where Bonnie was conferring with the guys by the lead bus.

The Monkees tour would drive to San Francisco for a one-nighter and fly on from there in the Monkees plane for the rest of the tour. Now waiting in the parking area outside Colgems studio were the musicians' and roadies bus, the costume van (with Genie riding shotgun), a crew bus packed with with as much sound and electrical equipment as could be loaded, and another panel van carrying what was left. The _last_ van, for Barry, Bonnie, Chip and a couple of crew bosses, would bring up the rear. And of course the press was there, to cover the "launch".

"On my way," Bonnie hollered back. "Okay, I got all your crap," she told Mike, Davy and Peter. "And you, Dolenz, nice try as always. And as always... forget it." Davy and Peter laughed at a grumbling Micky as the three of them trooped on board, leaving Mike behind.

"See ya at load in," she told him, and they pulled the same move they always did when the press was waiting breathlessly for the elusive "public display of affection".

"Later, Morris." And Mike raised a hand to slap Bonnie's palm as they both turned away to go their respective ways.

"Hey Bonnie, how about a goodbye kiss for the camera?" suggested one of the tabloid reporters.

Bonnie leaned toward the photographer she knew well from his previous attempts to shoot "the personal side", aka the big bucks Monkees scoop.

"Hey Steve. How about a fat lip for your face?"

Steve lowered his camera and grimaced. "You didn't used to be so mean," he griped.

Mike smirked over his shades as he boarded the bus. "Must be the company she keeps."

* * *

"What was the holdup?" Barry asked when Bonnie finally climbed into the van. "Aside from the obvious." Meaning the necessary evil of the press.

"Just the usual." She opened her oversized tapestry shoulder bag and recited, "Spare strings... ten sets each for Nesmith's Gretsch and his fancy ass Gibson. Seven sets for Peter's bass, and five for the Wildwood banjo plus five specials for his gut-strung. Five sets for David's Martin, thank God he only plays for a couple of numbers." She shook the bag and looked deeper inside. "And Nesmith's pick box. And _everybody's _capos. I think I got twelve of those... because of course Nes needs at least five, I stopped wondering why that's the magic number a long time ago. Micky tries to dump his sticks and brushes on me every time, but they go inside the bass drum box. Boy does that piss off the roadies when they have to open up the kit at the last minute."

"I think maybe I won't ask why you carry all that stuff, when we have a crew to handle the instruments," Barry told her as the other "regulars" present laughed among themselves.

"I think maybe you don't have to," Bonnie replied. "You may not know _these_ guys, but you know musicians... they're more superstitious than _baseball _players. So I learned not to question after the first tour. At least I know how to sort it all out," she said as she took a last peek inside her bag. "They'd be screwing around all night if they had to do it themselves."

* * *

"Can you put the camera down for a minute?" Peter pleaded after they'd been driving for a bit. "This is the only time we have before the whole world is in our face, you dig?"

The documentary crew seemed determined to film every available second, as if they were afraid of missing something.

"Don't you want to share that with the viewers? The quiet time before it all goes into orbit?" the documentary director asked. "I mean, this _is _supposed to be behind the scenes. You know, special access and all that."

"Maybe you didn't get it," Micky explained. "This is about The Monkees on Tour, not about us trying to live our lives like real people. So it's like... the _make_ _believe_ behind the scenes of the make-believe we do on camera. Get it? It's for the fans, and the fans want to see a little more of what they see already... the Monkees doing their thing, but on tour. So no offense... but shut the goddamn camera off except when we're The Monkees, capital T and M, okay?"

The director motioned his camera man to shut down. "This isn't exactly what I thought we signed up for," he observed.

Mike looked up from the magazine he was reading. "Us neither, man," he drawled. "Ain't life a bitch."


	4. Which would you prefer

Thanks to an on-time departure from L.A. and Indy-worthy driving, the Monkees tour arrived in San Francisco well ahead of schedule. After some brief consultation with Chip and the crew bosses, Barry decided it might be a good idea to do a sound check at seven p.m. the same day after the load-in was complete, allowing the gig day to be less frantic. Given that the day had mostly been spent waiting and sitting and "are we there yet"-ing everyone - including, amazingly, the Monkees themselves - liked the idea. Everyone's personal stuff was unloaded at the Hilton where Bonnie would sort out the accommodations with the desk manager as Barry accompanied everyone else to the Cow Palace auditorium. Everyone except Genie, that is, who insisted on keeping all costumes and props safely locked in a function room that had been dedicated to their storage.

"You don't need costumes for a bloody sound check," she told Barry, "it's not a West End dress rehearsal."

Barry, who had quickly learned to appreciate Genie's skills and judgment (not to mention her fiercely loyal crew) didn't question her protective instincts, and left her with Bonnie to get things settled. The plan was to scope out the performance areas, entrances, exits, and dressing rooms, and deliver the band and backing musicians back to the hotel while all the roadies and tech crew got set up. When things were ready, Chip would call the hotel and the musicians would come back for a run through.

"Wait!" Bonnie hollered as she ran the obstacle course of luggage, rolling costume racks, and the guys' personal instrument cases to catch up with Barry before he could board the lead bus. "We forgot about the contest winners!"

Pam Saunders was scheduled to bring a group of half-a-dozen lucky winners of a 16 Magazine "dinner with the Monkees" contest to the hotel, where a fairly structured (and alcohol-free) dinner had been planned for that evening.

"Ah crap!" Barry exclaimed. No virgin on the tour circuit, he nonetheless hadn't become quite as fluent in colorful language as most of the tour regulars. "Okay, Bonnie, think fast. Bob says you're good at that."

"Whatta time for him to shower compliments..." she grumbled. "Okay, lemme think..." What could turn this potential nightmare of the crushed dreams of six breathless teenagers into... "_HEY CHIP!" _she yelled in one of the open bus windows. "How many numbers you planning for the run through tonight?"

A blurred chaos of voices could be heard as he consulted the guys, then he popped his head out the window to announce, "Four or five, a range of tempos and volume, you know, to get the levels and feel the space."

"How about an even six?" Bonnie begged, "We got a little conflict here, those 16 contest winners were supposed to come here for that dinner thing... maybe we can turn the sound check into a mini-concert, we'll warn 'em it'll be rough but they're coming to the gig anyway so it'll be a big fat bonus for them."

"SIXTEEN TEENAGERS AT THE SOUND CHECK?" Micky shrieked, shouldering Chip aside to lean halfway out the window. "NO NO NO!"

"Chill out, Dolenz, _six_ teenagers, they won that 16 magazine contest. Pam'll be in charge, it should be fine."

Predictably another bus window slammed open, and there was Nesmith in patented Full-Ray-Ban opposition.

"Hard enough to do a check in a new venue, without screaming fans." A chorus of "Yeah!" floated out from behind him and Bonnie thought how funny it was that Micky, David, and Peter could harmonize even when freaking out. She rolled her eyes and waved at Barry to board the bus. "I got this," she promised. "Look, if you can't handle six screamers now, you are _screwed_ tomorrow night! Besides, you tell me, guys," she called into the bus, standing on tiptoe the better to stare into the window, "would you rather work onstage through a little squealing from fans who got more than they hoped for, or make small talk with 'em all evening with no booze allowed?"

A moment of silence from the bus, then another chorus: **"Sold." **

The windows slammed shut again and the buses rolled away. Bonnie joined Genie in the hotel lobby and introduced herself to the desk manager who would be responsible for blocking fan infiltration and hundreds of hopeful "Davy Jones' room, please..." phone calls for the next two days.

"Hi, Bonnie Morris. I'll be the den mother for this band of boy scouts, let's go to your office and we'll figure out how to keep this crazy train on the rails."

* * *

In half an hour the tour rooms were assigned, keys sealed in envelopes each with a handwritten note from Bonnie: "_Here's your key and this is your room. Take it or sleep in the street._" She'd had the notes written and ready and filed in her briefcase before Nesmith bundled her into bed the night before. Some pains-in-the-ass on the road were unavoidable, but she'd decided this time that dealing with griping tour members about room assignments would _not_ be one of them. She really didn't care who ended up where as long as the designated people gave her back their original keys an hour before check-out. The guys had the typical four bedroom suite, with generous room to party. Bonnie and Genie each had a suite of their own, one bedroom and plenty of room to work. Funny how that always happened.


	5. San Francisco, sound check

_In the Monkees suite_

The guys, their half dozen backup musicians, and Chip were slouched around on the floor finishing off their very working class chow down of pizza (delivered by a teenage guy who accepted his c-note tip with bug-eyed gratitude) and the six packs of beer they picked up on the way back from the Cow Palace.

"Okay, here's the plan," Chip told them, "we need a serious check for a couple of the ones you've never done live, like Only Sleeping, Sweet Young Thing, Daydream Believer. A regular check for the regular hits to get the baseline vocal and instrumental highs and lows for I'm A Believer, and I Wanna Be Free..."

"Mike me HIGH for that last one, mate," Davy insisted to a chorus of laughter. It was a running joke, the "intimate" ballad he did for every gig, seated on the edge of the stage with a hand mike... completely drowned out by the hysterical screams.

"That reminds me..." Chip cut in, "A couple of the ones on the album we know just will not work live because it'll be more like mime than music. Like Saginaw..."

"_Man!" _Peter exclaimed. "I finally get in some mandolin chops and it's trapped like a rat on vinyl."

Mike and Peter's old music buddy Gram Parsons had lent them some prime string band instruments, including a couple of amp-ready fiddles that would be used on Sweet Young Thing, and they'd hoped to give them regular use.

"You know he's right," Mike agreed. "Why waste those sweet strings on deaf ears?"

"Right on,"Chip added,"but I still bet fifty that the arrangement we worked out in the studio, with David on his Martin, Pete on mandolin, no bass at all, and Ralph and Marty on fiddle could make Bonnie break down and cry."

"Sucker bet," Mike drawled. "She's immune to us by now. One-hundred percent bulletproof."

"Yeah well she's got a serious weakness for Saginaw and I say she'll be reduced to a sloppy mess with the right bluegrass backup," Chip continued with rock-solid confidence. "And you didn't let me finish. Like I said, there's the serious check, the regular check, and then there's those girls that won that contest. That part's the playground."

Micky looked uncertain. "I dunno man, I don't think Bonnie or Pam are gonna go for _that_."

Davy sat up and shook his head in disgust. "You bloody _pae_dophile," he said, dragging out the "eee" sound in the first part of the word. "He means the _music _bit."

"Fine one to talk, Davy 'lock-up-your-daughters' Jones," grumbled an embarrassed Micky.

Chip hauled himself up off the floor. "I mean why not add the stuff we know won't play live for the nice _small_ audience, just to see how it sounds? Saginaw, maybe even Don't Call on Me? It's a cinch that little lounge song'll _never _see the outside of a studio otherwise."

"Ha, ha," Mike smirked, "I'll have the last laugh when you're all outta work and _I_ am a professional lounge crooner."

"Great, I'll bring my mom to see you at the Holiday Inn," Micky promised. "Okay, we'll figure it out, right men?" The others, including the backup guys, nodded energetically.

As they trooped out the door to meet the limo downstairs Mike reminded Chip, "I heard you got a little action going on with Morris. You think these contest winners are gonna be too clam-up-and-die with Monkee-awe to make noise during the check. She told me she has fifty says you're wrong."

Chip laughed out loud. "C'mon, you know this won't be anything like a gig for them. They're not gonna be surrounded by thousands of girls screaming and all of them feeding off each other... totally different scene."

"We'll see..." Mike slipped on his shades and smiled knowingly.

* * *

_Later, at the Cow Palace_

The stage was set up at one end of the huge arena, the small crescent behind being roped/barred/otherwise sealed off for exits and entrances with areas set aside for quick costume change-ups (jackets off/sweaters on) and props like the "James Brown" cape Mike would be draping on Micky for his blues solo.

In the center of the second row Pam Saunders had herded her six contest winners, now being more-or-less enthralled by Bonnie's rundown of what would be happening. As Bonnie delivered her very casual spiel from in front of the first row she smiled to see the girls watching the stage like six little hawks, hoping to catch the first glimpse of a Monkee.

"Relax ladies, the roadies are all there is to see for a little while longer," Bonnie laughed. "As I was saying, this isn't a concert, really. There could be some long pauses between the music and sometimes they may stop right in the middle so Chip can adjust things." She pointed to the area stage left where Chip ran madly between cable connections, amps, and his board, pausing to slap his headphones on as he checked levels. The headphones were tethered by an impossibly long series of patched together cables, allowing him to move even as far as the front row so he could visually place equipment as the instrument crew played a few basic chords to sort out the inputs. During one of his laps by the front row, Bonnie grabbed him.

"This is Chip Douglas. He works a lot of the magic that takes a bunch of guys on different instruments and turns them into the records you hear."

Six pairs of eyes stared at him... after all he was _almost_ a Monkee!

"I heard Mike produced some of the new album," commented one of the "older" (aka seventeen years old) girls. She was determined to be seen as more than just a teeny-bopper.

"True," Chip told her and her companions. "And Pam must have told you by now, Davy, Peter, Micky and Mike _do_ play their instruments. And I play some of them too, and some other guys you'll see onstage. Because, like, nobody has more than two hands, right?" Before he took off, he eyed Bonnie and added, "Now remember girls, we're working up there to get everything right for the show tomorrow. So we need to hear ourselves work, you dig? Save your excitement for the gig." He took off before Bonnie could reply.

Winking at the girls Pam yelled after him, "They know how to act, Chip, they're not _barbarians_!" Inside, though, she was laughing her ass off. Chip Douglas may have known the music inside and out but Pam knew the _fans, _and Bonnie had told her about the bet that Chip was guaranteed to lose. Pam hadn't told the girls about it, but she didn't have to. She and Bonnie had even decided between them when the kids would lose it, even if it were only once. They knew because Bonnie had enlisted Mike's help, and he knew exactly what to do and when. They'd never know what hit 'em.

* * *

The onstage activity was so constant that the guys came out and plugged in, incredibly, almost unnoticed by the "16 girls". It wasn't until Micky yelled "Welcome ladies, try to control yourselves when I bust loose on the skins!" that they sort of gasped and paid close attention. There was a little bit of chatter but they held it together as the tuning up began. They almost lost it again after things were set but fell silent as if hypnotized when Davy stepped up to the mike, one hand full of maracas and a tambourine hanging from the other, to flip on his thousand-watt charm.

"Welcome, ladies. We're sorry we couldn't get together for dinner as planned, but hope this'll make up for it. Bonnie may have told you it's not going to be as exciting as tomorrow night, but you'll hear some things from us that we won't be doing on the tour."

"Which ones?" a blonde pixie-like teen managed to ask.

Davy tapped a finger to his nose. "You'll have to wait to tomorrow to figure that 'un out. Til then it's our secret." And with a wink that triggered a more than a few sighs, he returned his attention to the others for the count-in.

Bonnie snickered under her breath. Damn he was _shameless_. Then she had to focus on the notebook and the clipboard in her lap, checking off the various load-in inventory checklists as the roadies, instrument handlers, and other techies brought them to her one by one. She'd organize them later, since they wouldn't be breaking down until tomorrow night. When it came to load in and load out check and breakdown Bonnie's checklists and inventories were organized with maniacal detail, each in its subsection of a separate loose-leaf binder for every city, each matched with the crew lists provided at load in and breakdown/load out. And even God couldn't help anyone if everything didn't match up perfectly.

As the band played through their opening check of You Told Me, Bonnie glanced up and smiled widely at Peter who was in the upper levels of heaven as he tore it up on his Wildwood. She could have set up backstage and done her thing, but being able to actually hear every note, to be able to shift her hearing from the banjo riffs to backup guy Ron's badass bass, to Micky's precise back-beat, it never got old. And this was the only chance she ever got to do it. Listening to a rough mix in the studio didn't come close.

Onstage the guys were completely absorbed in their music, adjusting the arrangement as they went. For them, too, this would be their only chance to actually hear how they sounded. This is where the groove descended, and they didn't waste a minute of it. Chip moved to the center front again, standing just to Bonnie's right, headphones slung around his neck.

Bonnie was taking lists with her left hand as the crew came by and handed them off, checking off with her right in her notebook, paying less attention to the stage as she went. Until...

_times have made me shy of girls and all the games they are playing..._

_...ahh_

As if on cue, at least four of the six girls in the row behind Bonnie lost control in a collection of combined squeals and sighs... and Bonnie's open hand shot out toward Chip.

"Pay up, Douglas." She didn't even look up from her record keeping.

Nor did Chip look down from his technical study of the stage as he dug a fifty out of his pocket and handed it back to her.

"Bitch," he whispered.

"Sucker," she replied.

Both were smiling. Bonnie waved the fifty at Mike and Pam in turn. The sound check continued.

* * *

Davy serenaded the girls with I Wanna Be Free, and after a brief consult with the band threw in the (diametrically opposed) I'll Be True To You for good measure. He offered a couple of (usually) swoon-inducing phrases directly to Bonnie who, unseen by the teenagers behind her, rolled her eyes and faked a yawn.

The girls seemed impressed by Micky's Moog and the eerie vocals and percussion in Love is Only Sleeping, a song that Bonnie had been convinced would turn them off as totally "not-Monkees". The "Monkees sound" was recovered by the bouncy percussion of The Kind of Girl I Could Love, while I'm A Believer was greeted with wild applause and fairly controlled exclamations, as were the other "hits". Bonnie was surprised when they added Clarksville, a thing they tried to avoid until absolutely necessary, but this got a rave response from the girls.

By nine-thirty it was winding down, having taken less time than a real concert but quite a bit longer than the standard sound check.

"This one's gonna sound a little different," Peter was explaining as he strapped on a flatiron mandolin. "It's on the new album, but we're giving it a more country-bluegrass feel here that might surprise our fans. A friend of ours has kind of a soft spot for it." Peter winked at Bonnie, which did not go unnoticed and Bonnie answered the whispers behind her with, "Trust me, it's a keeper."

When Bonnie saw Ralph and Marty step out with their fiddles and Davy test a few light, bending notes on the Martin, she sat up straighter. She'd always thought the song was _begging_ for fiddles, but never mentioned it because she tried not to step _too_ deeply into the guys' territory. At the moment, she shut her eyes and bent forward, elbows on knees, chin resting in her hands, in full Listening Trance. Shutting out everything except the vocals and music. She'd never heard David play that way... then Peter's first mandolin line made her breath catch. And at the end of the first line of the second verse came the fiddles, and she was lost.

As the fade played out, Bonnie sat up again and looked up at the stage, blinking rapidly, smiling like a fool.

"Guys... holy shit." She didn't care who was giggling behind her.

Chip came to the edge of the stage and peered down at Bonnie, then stood and wheeled on Mike.

"Pay up, Nesmith... she's bawlin' like an orphan."

Bonnie glared at the two of them through slightly runny eyes.

"You _bet_ on me you shifty bastards?"

One of the girls noted, apparently in Mike's defense, "Well _you_ bet on _us!"_

Bonnie turned and protested." Hey,that was different!" She balled Chip's fifty and tossed it to Pam. "That's gonna buy your dinner before the concert tomorrow!"

"Aw relax, Morris, you know we'll make it back offa _somebody_ before we hit New York!" Mike assured her from the stage.

Then Micky called down from his perch at the drums, "Okay kids, now when anybody asks you what it's like behind the scenes on a Monkees tour, you can tell em... it's one long floating crap game!"

* * *

They didn't get much time to visit afterward, but Bonnie had a chance to exchange some "mad huggery" with Pam, and the guys graciously came by for brief hello's and to sign the girls' backstage passes.

"We all read Pam's article about your show in Paris," one of the teenagers found the courage to say. "She's right, I had no idea how _hard_ you work!"

Micky being Micky, he dropped to his knees at her feet. "You are a fan to die for," he declared as she nearly passed out cold.

* * *

_12:10 am San Francisco Hilton, Bonnie Morris's suite_

Bonnie finished up the last of the load-in inventory lists, snapping the binder rings shut, and dropped her head forward on the desk. It could have waited until tomorrow but, "It's _done_, one more thing _done_..." she congratulated herself.

She hadn't heard the door to the suite open and close, but the scent of Ivory Soap, fancy after shave, and a soupcon of performance funk announced Mike's approach. Still, she didn't move, waiting instead to feel him crouch next to her and nuzzle the back of her neck. She loved when he did that.

"Yep, all done, and ready to start _all over again_ tomorrow," he said next to her ear before giving it a nibble. "But right now... you owe me fifty bucks."

"Huh? Oh, right. Well it's your own damn fault you guys made me cry, kinda stupid to blame me." She stood and stared up at him. His later-than-five-o'clock shadow lent that dusky quality to his face that somehow made those dark eyes darker, the lashes longer and his mouth...

"Stop looking like that."

Mike stepped back and looked himself up and down, then down at Bonnie. "Like _what?"_

"Like that," she grabbed his collar and pulled him down to her, scattering kisses in his short scruff. "And like _that_," she repeated, pulling him over to the bed to sit him down and kiss his gorgeously shaded eyelids, brushing his lashes with her lips.

"Oh. Well if it bothers you that much," he teased as she unbuttoned his shirt, "I'll stop." He was rewarded by her pushing him over backward and climbing on top of him.

"Don't you dare."

He lay there smiling as she managed to get him mostly undressed, and finally rolled her onto her back and leaned over her on one elbow, sliding his other hand inside her plush bathrobe and expertly loosening the sash.

"So, mama, I guess this means I'll be takin' that fifty out in trade?" He dropped down to run his open mouth over her neck and shoulders and then worked his way lower, his hands running elsewhere at their leisure.

"Oh honey make no mistake," she promised in a husky voice as she pulled him down hard. "You're gonna _earn_ it."


	6. Seattle, press conference

_Seattle Hilton_

The crowd of thirty or so print, T.V., and radio journalists were gathered in one of the smaller ballrooms, clutching their press kits as Barry, Bonnie, and the guys trooped in to sit at a draped and microphone-covered table at the front of the room. The band came first in their accustomed lineup of Davy, Peter, Micky, and Mike and Barry and Bonnie followed, taking the two end seats. Though they'd never actually played live in Seattle, more than a few of the reporters were familiar to Bonnie from other cities and publicity calls. Like musicians, reporters tended to travel a lot, and went where the gigs were. It was second nature to Bonnie and the guys, but Bonnie started by presenting Barry to the group as their "latest road victim" then sat back as he did his usual intro.

"But you're not here to see me, are you, you want to know more about the Monkees tour and the new album they're promoting."

Everyone on the tour had noticed how he never included himself in statements about the tour. Never "we", always "they" or "the Monkees", always jokingly offering Bonnie up as the "go to" for things he supposedly couldn't handle. In reality he carried more than his weight, more than Bob ever had, but always stepped back from the credit (also more than Bob ever had).

When Barry had asked Bonnie how they'd want to handle "out of bounds" stuff, the personal questions that some sap always thought he'd get a scoop on, she told him "They know what to do... Peter will be deeply philosophical, Micky will be zany, David will be charmingly evasive. Nesmith'll just tell 'em to fuck off." When Barry's face went a little weird at that, she laughed. "Just kidding! He'll just drop those bulletproof shades of his and give 'em a stony smirk. Don't worry, it's a familiar scene."

This scene was just as familiar, with a few extras like "Why'd you wait so long to come play here?"

Peter answered honestly, they weren't sure they had much of a following in Seattle. To which Davy added, "We were wrong on that one... had to add another show."

There followed questions about new songs, for the album and for the gigs, and everyone - even Nesmith, who hated press calls almost as much as he hated Don Kirshner - answered with a relaxed mix of irreverence and professionalism.

Then a slick looking guy in wrap-around shades and a Nehru jacket stood and called out, "Jeremy Watts, Weekend Beat. I have a question for Bonnie."

Not a big surprise for this trip; she was in a new role and sometimes was the favored target for throwaway questions.

"Sure, I'm paid to have _almost_ all of the answers, shoot."

"Now that you and Mike have put things back together, how are you handling the girl thing?" When she didn't respond immediately he clarified, "You know, are you able to concentrate on the job without wondering what might be happening out of sight?"

She could tell Barry wanted to let her field this one her way. From the corner of her eye she could see Micky and Peter shaking their heads and muttering, Davy rolling his eyes, Mike giving that sharp little nod that dropped the Ray Bans into "fuck off" position.

Then she looked briefly over the rest of the (mostly annoyed) reporters and invited smoothly, "Next question."

Mr. Weekend Beat wasn't smart enough to give up. "How about you, Mike, is this tour gonna be a test on the domestic front?"

Mike glanced over at Bonnie then glared at the guy and drawled, "You got your answer, slick."

When the guy still didn't sit down, Barry half stood and leaned over the table to peer at the overly-hip Jeremy Watts. "Oh, you do have it."

The reporter was confused. "Have what?"

"Your press kit," Barry explained. "I was concerned for a minute Bonnie had missed you at the handout. Sorry you haven't had time to look at it. Page one of the question guidelines... top line. It says 'personal questions will not be accepted at public press conferences.' So... now we're clear, right?" No response. "Then if there are no more questions? Okay then, we're done. Thanks for coming ladies and gentlemen. Copies of the tour itinerary are on the table near the door as you leave as well as contact information in case you have more questions or need more press materials. Hope to see you at the concert. _Both_ nights."

As they reassembled in the back room, Micky let out a low whistle.

"Well that was a cooler number than I'd have bet on."

Bonnie turned to Barry, who had just joined them wearing a smug grin. "He's right, you were outtasight, thanks for bailing me out."

Micky laughed and pointed at Mike, who was looking equally smug. "No, Bon-bon, _him! _I figured he'd pull out the flamethrower, but he was so cool I'll bet even Davy felt the chill down the other end." He faked a body-shiver.

"Oh, right."She turned to Barry, who looked a little taken aback that they all seemed so surprised, and admitted, "Remember how I said 'just kidding'? I was just kidding."

It was Mike's turn to look confused. "Kiddin' about what Morris?"

"That you'd _never _use your favorite version of 'no comment'..."

"You mean 'fuck off'? Hell _that_ was comin' up next," he assured Barry.

Whereupon Micky slapped the latter on the back. "Relax man, you have natural timing. First time I've seen anyone get the jump on Mike. You're gonna do _real_ well with us."


	7. Seattle, after the party

Mike slipped into Bonnie's suite as quietly as humanly possible. She'd left the party early, midnight or so, after being as sociable and party-wild as she could manage after a fifteen hour day, to finish the Seattle paperwork. He'd never get why she couldn't save up the stuff the roadies and techies provided and sort it out later. Then again, she never could get why when an idea came into his head he had to sit down right then and there and write it down on whatever was available before it evaporated. Their whole life together was made up of don't-get-it and got-it. Got-it consisted mostly of whatever time they could grab off the Monkees clock. Right now qualified, but she was already crashed out in the latest big hotel bed she'd scored for the tour. She'd left the desk light on for him (got-it) and he could see her notebooks neatly closed and stacked and ready to be packed away in the morning with the rest of the finished business of Seattle.

He wished she'd seen him when that redheaded groupie had been working him so hard. That she'd seen written all over him what had kinda surprised him... not restraint, but one-hundred percent who-cares. He really knew that by now the residual doubt was gone, but extra evidence couldn't hurt. It especially couldn't hurt him, when the fact of his surprise left him feeling so guilty.

He undressed and left his after-gig clothes where he knew she'd want to find them, to be easily rolled up and shoved in a secondary bag to join the laundry luggage, due for delivery in Chicago to one of the many magical places that she and other people arranged for things that The Performers never had to think about.

Damn. Chicago. Where they started... where he'd almost finished them. He thought about that dumbass question from that asshole reporter at the press call yesterday. Shit... _was_ this a test on the domestic front? Only if it tested the limits of his patience with the chicks who remembered him from before. Yeah, the Mike Nesmith who would unzip for anyone who slowed down long enough was semi-long gone and not groovy with being reminded of the unzipped old days. The "sincere" ones never got close to him; security made sure of that. But the regulars and the party girls like that redhead tonight... they knew too much about him to be fooled by his new style. And they weren't impressed by "get lost". Oh they _believed_ it, they just didn't buy the I'm-so-above-it jive. Because he wasn't above it, he was just past it, and he was no better than they were. He wasn't used to feeling this dirty.

After a longer than usual shower, doused in Bonnie's soap and shampoo, he finished drying his hair and switched off the desk light before walking barefoot and silent to the big bed. She was balled up dead center as had become her habit on the road... there was no "his side/her side" in hotels. Any old side would do; first one in got the middle. He sat down for a minute and had a look at her as he did sometimes, taking advantage of the silence and solitude to think about the things that weren't Music and Art and Success, and that didn't demand anything from him except who he really was. The dim street light through the thick curtains barely outlined Bonnie's upturned face, all work and worries smoothed away in sleep, and as he watched her he wondered if he'd ever lose that pull at his conscience that reminded him of how he'd almost tossed it all in the crapper in exchange for his stupid dick.

_God damn I hope I never do._

And then as always she caught him out, her sleepy smile wrecking him. As always.

"Hmm Nes... have enough fun for both of us?"

He slid under the covers and pulled her against him.

"Yeah babe. Just enough."


	8. Chicago: Part 1

_Chicago Stadium parking lot, 11pm_

Barry stifled a yawn as before getting into his rented car. He hated depending on anyone else for his transportation so once the tour hit its stride he made sure to have a rental waiting for him at every airport.

"See ya tomorrow guys, don't forget breakfast in the small banquet room for crew bosses and musicians."

Various exhausted mumbles and groans drifted from various places within and beyond the circle of the parking lot lights.

"Hey, not until eleven a.m., so it's practically brunch!" Bonnie reminded them. "You still have plenty of time to hit the clubs tonight and sober up in time for sound check tomorrow. Except for you guys." She pointed at Davy, Peter, Micky and Mike. "You got an interview at WFCL at one. With..." She pulled notebook out of her "magic bag" and flipped to a folded page. "Ron Britain. Barry'll be going with you. The car'll pick you up at twelve-thirty."

Barry stopped his door in mid-slam and leaned out again. "Oh, right, sorry Bonnie, I got more things to arrange at the stadium with the press. You'll go to the studio with the guys."

Evil laughter from Micky. "Get ready, Chicago," he cackled, "you're about to meet the Raybert Birthday Girl."

She was too tired to smack his head as she climbed into the limo behind him, grateful for Nesmith's helpful shove.

"In yer dreams, Dolenz. I'll be in the office. I don't wanna _know_ what happens in the booth."

* * *

_The Drake Hotel, Coq d'Or Bar, midnight_

In spite of their complaints of being worked to an early grave to get a jump on the next day's opener of their two-night stand most everyone hit the clubs as predicted. Bonnie planned to retire to her suite to get the load in paperwork done but was detoured by Mike, who had ignored her encouragement to go out and have fun while the going was good.

"C'mon, Morris," he coaxed as he steered her bodily to a corner table. "And tell me again what the name of this place means?" He looked around with exaggerated concern. "Sounds a little, y'know... red-light district and all."

Bonnie rolled her eyes as Mike summoned a waiter. "It means 'The Golden Rooster' you pervert. The hotel literature says it opened the night after Prohibition got repealed. Now you tell me... why can't I just go upstairs and get some work done?"

"Split of Dom P.," Mike instructed the waiter. Because the man appeared to recognize him he added, "Not on the Monkees tab, thanks. I'll take care of it."

"Very good, Mr. Nesmith."

Mike returned his attention to Bonnie and tapped his watch. "It's just after midnight. Which means happy birthday, Morris." He leaned across the small table and gave her a kiss. "Don't forget, you said this year starts a whole new birthday bag for you. No more hiding and moping and snapping the heads off of anyone who dares to say the words."

"Hey, I did okay last year!" she protested. "Bob gave me the day off work and you took me out to dinner after you finished taping and I blew out the candle on the cupcake and everything. And I didn't cry once all day, not even when the guys had those flowers delivered to the house."

"Yeah well the 'please don't hurt us' message on the card might've had something to do with that. But it _was_ a real improvement over the year before when you hung up the phone every time I called." He waited for the returning waiter to pop the cork and fill and set the flowered champagne flutes. "But last year was just the warm-up. This year you are gonna act like a regular person who got born and remembers what day every year without going to pieces. Genie told me that's what you said awhile ago, that night when I called her about this. Dig?"

"Dug. Nice you were gathering intelligence while I was sleeping, by the way." She couldn't believe she was being lectured on Birthday Etiquette by the man who greeted his every new year on earth by downing enough shots of tequila with his friends to pickle Pancho Villa. When Mike set a little shiny black box down in front of her she asked, "What's this?"

"It is something regular people who live normal kinda lives call a 'birthday present'. I didn't wrap it because I didn't want you to have to work too hard on your first regular-people birthday."

"I feel a head-snap coming on," she warned, then plucked the top off the box and bounced it off of his head. "Oh wow!" Her smartass smirk was wiped away by a smile of pure delight as she pulled the necklace out of the box. From a silver chain whose links alternated with light turquoise beads hung a silver charm. Bonnie laughed as she held it up to inspect it more closely. The charm was an armadillo sitting in a cowboy hat. Its eyes were set with the same light turquoise to make them pale blue like her own.

"Not that I'm a goddamn cowboy or anything," he explained, "but you _are_ stuck in my head Mamadillo. The jeweler who made it convinced me that having you sitting in a skull would probably freak you out so I told him I'd be cool with the hat." By the time he finished talking she was wearing it, trying to lift it away so she could see it at the same time.

"It is so _perfect_, I love it!" Her expression grew sly, wicked even. "And I'll _love_ saying 'no comment' whenever the press asks me what it means!"

"Knew you'd find a good use for it," Mike grinned. "Confusing jewelry _does_ suit you." When she suddenly ducked her head and began rummaging in her bag he thought she might be crying and hunting for Kleenex, so he handed her a linen napkin. "Listen if you're gonna ruin last year's record at least do it with style." But when she sat up again she handed him a black velvet bag.

"What's this?" he echoed her earlier question. It was heavy for its size and whatever was inside had a weird shape.

"It's for you, is what it is. Because this is the second year in a row that I will wake up on my birthday and the first thing I'll see will be you. Which makes you a _present._ And this here is for that." She lost her train of thought, which was easy to do when he was staring at her with those indecent eyes. She'd had it all figured out what she'd say and it was gone in flash of liquid brown and long dark lashes. "Just open it will you?"

So he undid the drawstring and began to unroll a long narrow strip of tooled leather. "Oooh, Morris, getting kinky are ya?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. She was rolling her eyes again so he shut up and unrolled the whole thing until he reached the silver buckle. It was an oval with a raised edge, and in the center was what looked like a monogram worked in flowing script.

"I think you got ripped off, mama, these do not look like my initials..." He picked the candle up off the table and held the buckle under the light. "S... T... Y?" The T was the center of the monogram, flanked by the smaller but no less ornate S and Y. By now Bonnie had her head down on the table. "What? I can't hear you if you're eatin' the tablecloth."

She raised her head and gaped at him in disbelief. "S, T, Y. Which is S, Y, T, monogram-style." Still he wore a blank stare. "Oh my God, Nes, you wrote the damn song with Carol and Gerry, we both get ragged on it all the time by the press..."

"Sweet Young Thing?" He puzzled for a minute, then light dawned. "Hey now..."

Even though that song was honestly one that actually _had_ been written for nobody at all, jealous chicks who fantasized about it and reporters who couldn't resist getting in a dig or two in revenge for all the "no comment" responses to the "age issue" crap often found a way to include it in some comment or other.

"Hey now, yourself," Bonnie told him. "I'm that Older Chick that has Mike Nesmith in her clutches, so that makes _you_ my Sweet Young Thang. If you don't mind, of course."

The bartender looked up from his glass-polishing to see what was happening at the corner table when Mike roared with laughter then lowered his voice to a dark growl.

"_Mind_? Baby you can clutch this Sweet Young Thang anytime you want." He put Bonnie's glass in her hand and raised his own, and leaned in to tell her in a quiet voice, "Happy Birthday Morris. That's _happy_. First of many darlin', I'll see to it personally."

When they'd clinked and drained their glasses she couldn't stop staring at him. "Well for all of 'em you are the best birthday present I will ever get." She sat back after a minute and laughed a little. "Wow. For a minute there we were almost, you know, like _regular_ people."

Mike stood and crooked his finger to beckon her, his expression unmistakable.

"How about we blow this speakeasy... unless you wanna unwrap your sweet young thang right here?"

* * *

One of the hotel's five elevators got stalled between floors for the next twenty minutes or so, but no guests were inconvenienced.


	9. Chicago: Part 2

Bonnie herded the guys into the WFCL studios at quarter to one, all of them reasonably awake and alert. She was proudly wearing her new tour t-shirt, the tie-dyed version of the "Monkees US Tour 1968" with the words "Boss Lady" emblazoned across the back. Genie (being the tie-dye artist) had presented presented it to her at breakfast on behalf of the tour crew. The "event" was recorded by the documentary camera crew, whose director insisted Bonnie say something for the fans. She turned her back, pointed to the words, and explained, "It's roadie for 'kick me'."

Now she shook the host Ron Britain's hand and introduced the guys, intending to make herself scarce for the interview. Ron wasn't having it.

"We have a chair and a mic set up for you here, Bonnie, so you can join us."

"Uh, no, thanks, I don't do that part, strictly behind the scenes," she demurred.

"A bit microphone shy," explained Davy.

Micky added, "And with a holler like hers, who needs a microphone?" This earned a prompt smack to the head.

Laughing, the host suggested, "Okay, well at least sit in the booth with Larry our producer. That way you can see the show."

Bonnie reluctantly agreed, muttering as she followed Larry into the booth, "Honey, I _live_ the show..."

Larry told Bonnie where to sit and promised her the mic in front of her would remain dead, but she'd be able to hear whatever happened on the air. In the on-air studio, Ron was getting the guys settled. After they sat in their respective chairs and ran the mic test he ran them through the routine.

"Okay guys, I'm gonna give the usual kinda interview, questions about the gig tonight and tomorrow, about the new album, and plans for the show's next season. In between we're gonna take some calls from fans, all of them _screened_," he hastened to add to calm the four worried looks. "No personal questions from them, or from me, per the agreement I signed with Barry." He pulled out their newest album and cued it up on the turntable. "And of course, he suggested cuts to play. We'll go with what's on the charts. Just be yourselves, but please don't touch the equipment!"

"My good man," Micky objected in his plummiest fake accent, "we are not _savages_."

Mike breathed an inner sigh of relief. He was not into having to explain Love is Only Sleeping, especially not to some simpering fan.

"Okay guys I'll do the intro then we're gonna play in with For Pete's Sake and then go into the live segment."

The on-air light went bright and he went into his riff.

"Good afternoon Chicago, it's one p.m. I'm Ron Britain with all your favorite hits, and today my special guests, as I know you have guessed, are the Monkees, who are appearing live here in town tonight and tomorrow night. Say hi, guys."

They all offered various versions of "hello", and Ron continued, "We're gonna start off with a cut off the newest album, the end theme for their hit TV show." He hit the turntable button and switched off the mics.

And so it went. They, and Bonnie on occasion, had sat through innumerable of the same kind of interviews to hype the concert in whatever city they happened to be in. Pushing the album, thrilling some breathless fans who _never_ remembered to turn down their radios when calling, and repeating about a thousand times the date(s), time, and location of the concert. Larry the producer screened all calls and hit the cutoff button for any fan who was too hysterical or who gave him a question deemed personal or generally inappropriate.

Bonnie only half paid attention from the producer's booth. She knew the drill... Peter was sweetly ethereal, Micky was almost crazy, David would be charming each and every listener - and their mothers, probably - right out of their go-go boots, and Mike would be satirical. They seldom said the same thing twice, but it might has well have been from a script. As the music and live segments played on Bonnie let her mind wander to the gig tonight. Load in was done, no load out until tomorrow, and she might actually be able to relax and watch some of the show from the house instead of the wings, (where she always ended up passing props and helping with quick costume changes). Practically a vacation.

Suddenly Larry was tapping her on the shoulder. "Listen up, Ron's talking to you."

Sure enough Britain was addressing her from the other room.

Live. On-air.

"Bonnie, Sherry from Champaign has a question for the Boss Lady."

Bonnie jerked to attention, frantically waving and shaking her head "no".

Davy piped up, "She's a little microphone shy, luv," repeating his earlier explanation.

"C'mon, Bonnie," Micky cajoled, "Kerry's coming over a hundred miles to the gig, give her a break. We promise it won't become a habit, you mean old thing."

Bonnie's narrowed eyes warned him, _oh you are gonna get SUCH a smack after this_. She told Larry, "Go ahead and make me live." The mic's red light went on.

"Hi Kerry, sorry about that. David's right, I tend to keep my mouth shut around microphones." _Damn, _she thought, _I called him David. Everybody "out there" knows him as sweet little Davy._

"So THAT'S how we do it!" Peter exclaimed. "Ron, hang a mic around my neck."

"Ha, ha, Peter," Bonnie cut in. "Okay Kerry, what can I tell you that you don't already know? You fans seem to know _everything_ about the Monkees."

A young voice, a bit nervous, answered her.

_"Well it's not about them, it's about you. Your job, I mean."_

"That could take a while but lemme give it a shot."

_"So every girl everywhere wants your job..."_

"And there are days they can have it, believe me."

Sherry's laughter tinkled through the speakers

_"Well I'm sure like me everybody out here is wondering, how did you GET such a cool job? How did you plan for it, and go out to get it, and how would somebody like me do the same thing?"_

"Wow. That's even more complicated than your lead-in." She used the music jargon without thinking. She thought for a minute about where she'd come from, how she'd gotten here. It was a winding road to say the least. "Well when I came to L.A. from New York I didn't have a job, or even a plan. I answered this ad in the paper that sounded like any other business looking for help. I had no experience in television, in music talent management, I was basically a qualified administrative assistant, that's it. You have to understand, the show wasn't even on the air yet. So I went in blind, kind of like the Monkees did, and well... here I am a few years later. Strictly on-the-job training. So you see I don't have much in the way of advice... sorry."

_"Sounds like you saw a job and just jumped for it."_

"Yeah. That says it all. So if you put a gun to my head - sorry, not the best thing to say on the air, huh? - if I had to come up with an answer I'd say if you see what looks like a good opportunity, go for it. Even if it looks crazy, which the show's ad for actors did look _really _crazy, just say 'why not' and go for it. None of us knew where this would lead, but here we are. So... if you wanna call it advice, say that. Go for it." She paused for a second and added, "And definitely finish high school. College helps to."

_"Where did you go to college?"_

This was going longer than she expected.

"Uh, I didn't. But it couldn't hurt! Oh, and one more thing. If you manage to get in on the ground floor of the best gig imaginable..."

_"Yes?"_

"Be careful what you wish for."

More laughter from Sherry then. _"Thanks so much Bonnie."_

"You're more than welcome. Enjoy the concert."

The call ended and when Ron came on-air again it became obvious what he and the guys had been talking about as she spoke with Sherry.

"So the Monkees have told me a little secret, that today is their Boss Lady Bonnie Morris's birthday. They asked me to cue up a specially significant song for her, and if I don't, they've threatened to sing Happy Birthday."

"In Pig Latin," Mike drawled.

"In Pig Latin," Ron continued. "Why don't I let Peter introduce this one."

In the engineer's booth Bonnie was dying a thousand deaths. If they had picked "Sweet Young Thing" she swore it would lead to an on-air murder-suicide.

"So today is Bonnie's birthday," Pete began, smiling widely at Bonnie through the studio window, "and it's Saturday."

"And she drives us wild," added Davy.

When the unmistakable "bum BUM da bum BUM" base line led in, she matched Peter's smile with her own. When the music reached the bridge, the guys burst into song (not on-the-air, thank God) and finished in perfect four part harmony:

_I know that Saturday's got what it takes babe  
I can tell by the waaayy she looks at meeeeeee..._

After the song played out Ron went live again to thank the guys, and Bonnie, and David, Pete, Micky, and Mike gave their usual sign-offs.

When Bonnie entered the on-air booth Ron shook her hand. "Thanks for being such a good sport."

"Oh man," she told him, "if you only _knew_ how easy this coulda gone South..." She handed him a dozen passes, six for each night's gig. "Okay guys, let's roll. Sound check at four."

Groans all around.

As they got to the hotel limo Mike said to nobody in particular, "Well that went better than expected."

"Thanks a lot, cowboy," Bonnie snapped back as they slid into the car. Mike skipped the usual reply.

"Relax mama." He calmed her down with a kiss.

"Okay, okay..."she conceded. "Yeah it went pretty well for somebody like me who doesn't do interviews. And thanks for not playing Sweet Young Thing for my birthday... _really_.

"Hey, we all know who the sweet young thing is in this gang," Micky quipped, pointing to Nesmith's new belt buckle.

"And besides mama," Mike growled as he gave her neck a playful kiss, "You _do_ drive me wild."

* * *

**A/N: The unnamed "new album" is as AU as the story, and here contains songs from other recordings.**


	10. Detroit

Thank God the Detroit gig had gone well. Thank God it was only a one night stand. Thank God the savage fans hadn't gotten their hands on the guys, and they and the costumes had survived intact.

Bonnie was doing her usual final cruise of the stadium lobby area, scanning the merch tables as they packed up and counted out. She often glanced at inventory records to get a feel for the take but she _never_ touched the money; the one and only tour member from the accounting department took care of collecting, recording, and depositing the money by wire transfer from every city.

The lobby area was always the last place to empty out and close... last minute t shirt purchases, of course, and beyond all logic the odd fan(s) who believed for some reason the band not only lingered after the show but actually wandered around the stadium's public areas. For what, Bonnie wondered. Suicide, maybe.

As she wished the last t shirt vendor a thank you/good night she heard a voice over her shoulder asking, "Are you Bonnie Morris?" She was wearing her "Boss Lady" tour shirt, so it was a natural question.

Not looking up from the inventory sheet she handed back to the vendor she answered, "Yeah that's me. What can I do for you?"

Before she could fully turn Bonnie was grabbed by the shirt and spun around. A very angry teenaged girl with long red hair and a "I love Mike" t shirt (homemade, obviously) shook her hard.

"You can keep your hands off Mike!" she shrilled, and without further comment punched Bonnie full in the face, just missing her nose.

The force of the blow knocked her to the floor, and the girl piled on. Stunned, Bonnie heard someone yell "Rico!" to summon the head of security as several of the remaining merch staff dragged the screaming harpy up and away.

"You bitch!" the kid continued to scream. "Leave him alone!"

One of the maintenance workers who had been sweeping up helped Bonnie to her feet.

"You all right lady? Want me to call a cop?"

She shook her head, as much to focus as to tell him no. "That's okay we got our own security." And as if on cue Rico and three of his biggest "gig goons" came dashing up to take the attacker in hand.

"You wanna press charges?" Rico asked.

"Hell yeah. Call the cops and give them my number. Let this little psycho chill out in jail for a while." She said it mostly to shut up and scare the shit out of the kid. It worked well on both counts. The maintenance guy offered her a clean rag, which she used to wipe the blood from her cut and swelling lip.

"Thanks. Oh this is just _great_, I gotta hide from the press until I heal up," she complained to the guy, who really didn't know much about who she was except with the band.

Stomping away to find a limo to the hotel, the last words the stadium crew and merch staff heard were muttered over Bonnie's shoulder in a bitter snarl:

"Jesus Christ, I _hate_ Detroit!"


End file.
